


Sixty

by Proclaim_Thy_Warrior_Soul



Series: Counting 'Verse [1]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Mental Health Issues, deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proclaim_Thy_Warrior_Soul/pseuds/Proclaim_Thy_Warrior_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first lands before he's ready; rocks him back on his knees, ears ringing.</p>
<p>Clint counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixty

**Author's Note:**

> Allusions to, and actual, torture. Hurt/comfort. Deaf!Clint. Can be read as Clint/Coulson, but can also be read as friendship.

 

Sixty

The first lands before he's ready; rocks him back on his knees, ears ringing.

Clint counts.

**One.**

He tastes blood; can easily guess their plan. Resigns himself to the fact with a snort.

**Two.**

They follow in quick succession, although he's prepared this time; braces for what's to come.

**Three, four, five.**

Lets his mind drift; elsewhere is more interesting. A crack in the wall; dust coating the floor; the sliver of sunlight through blacked-out windows.

**Six, seven, eight.**

He ignores the taunts with ease of practice. Can't make out their words, anyway. Lost his hearing aids somewhere between falling from his perch and being dragged here in cuffs.

**Nine, ten, eleven.**

His lack of reaction riles them, but he won't give them the satisfaction.

**Twelve. Thirteen-fourteen-fifteen.**

No order to their chaos; no finesse. Just blow after blow after blow.

**...Seventeen...**

Loses count, head pounding. Bites the inside of his cheek; a distraction.

**Eighteen...Nineteen.**

Tastes copper. Spits blood.

**Twenty.**

Aches and pains make their presence known. An urge to retaliate grows stronger, but he can't fight back.

**Twenty-one, twenty-two.**

Not yet. Orders are to stand down; wait it out - the last communication with his new Handler. Instincts scream otherwise.

**Twenty-three. Twenty-four.**

Cold, harsh metal bites into tender flesh, bruised and bloody from efforts at release. He stifles grunts of pain behind expertly-schooled features.

**Twenty-five. Twenty-six.**

The seconds slowly tick by.

**Twenty-seven, Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.**

The now steady drip-drip, drip-drip holds sway over his mind; eyes fixated as they trace the path from skin to air to floor; mesmerized.

**Thirty-one, thirty-two.**

The room sways, his brain stutters to keep up. The numbers are lost to him. Again.

**Thirty-five, Thirty-six.**

The next hit touches a particularly sensitive spot, one Clint wasn't anticipating. The resulting scream of pain echoes angrily around the enclosed space. He forgets to count.

**Forty. Forty-one-two-three-four.**

Breathless, air taken without consent; lungs tight. Vision blurring, but still he counts; the task grows harder as his concentration falters.

**Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine...**

They're tiring, which means Clint is winning.

**Fifty. Fifty-one.**

They switch. The ones that hold him are now the ones that hurt him. Clint scents fresh bloodlust; glee. Closes his eyes. Continues counting.

**Fifty-two.**

A sudden cough brings up blood and Clint feels as the pitiful contents of his stomach starts to follow. Swallows it down with a grimace.

**Fifty-three.**

They're changing tactics. Clint prefers it when they were beating him to a pulp. Swallows a fresh scream and concentrates on drawing air into protesting lungs.

**Fifty-four.**

Hands. All over...

**Fifty-five.**

Spits the chunk of flesh to the floor, blood coating lips and tongue. Now he's not the only one screaming.

**Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.**

The last blow ends with him face-down on a filthy surface. Metal digs further into torn skin...but it no longer matters.

**Fifty-nine.**

Pressure. He can't breathe; lungs giving in. His world, reduced cruelly to dirt, pain, blood and fear, is graying out. He no longer struggles.

**Sixty.**

...

...

...

...

It's over.

The pressure eases, though Clint can't determine why. The static in his ears drowns out all important sounds; the fight to steal back oxygen garners his complete concentration.

...

...

...

There's a voice... A hand.

He flinches, curls tighter into a ball and mutters softly under his breath, eyes clenched shut. His words make no sense but they're a comfort all the same.

...

"-nt...sta...oka..."

The voice, clearer now. Lips close to his ear.

Clint attempts to move but gentle hands restrain. Soft, soothing in their familiarity. Clint utilizes the decision to open his eyes...

_Phil._

...

It takes a moment, but recognition shows, bloody lips quirking in greeting before darkness wins.

Clint's last thought; _safe_.

«End»

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
